And In This Desperation, You Will Find Denial
by Rebukes
Summary: His protégé has been behind him for approximately three minutes and eighteen seconds, and L is positive that during this time, he has read every word on the screen; searching and analyzing, attempting to decipher something that just wasn’t there. L/Mello


Everything seems to settle down around the place at 2 a.m. The halls that seem to echo all day with both bickering and laughter quiets; the wooden paneling retiring from its task of bouncing sounds, both loud and soft, from panel to panel until it reaches human ears.

It's when L can finally stretch his legs out and relax, focusing on his screen without the constant distractions serving to slow his work down by six percent. He pops a sugar-coated strawberry into his mouth and swirls his tongue around the sweet substance until it has dissipated and all that is left is slightly less satisfying pulp.

He is nearing thirty now and things have finally settled down, as far as the Kira case is concerned. The media has quieted by a substantial amount, pushing the stories to the final pages of the papers, where they rest in small, undetailed boxes; the more intricate musings and conspiracy theories left to the tabloids, next to articles of alien abductions and women giving birth to the offspring of animals.

Perhaps that is where they belong. Better to have the truth pressed neatly and safely in between falsehoods where the details won't be dug into too deeply. Humanity is funny that way, he thinks: the way that a figure and event that had turned the world on its axis for so long can be swept under the proverbial carpet and reduced down to mutterings. It serves the constant struggle for anonymity well.

And perhaps that is why he still comes back to this place. His home, or what used to be. What may be again. Where he can walk openly, bare feet against polished hardwood floors, and not focus on maintaining a ruse for the benefit of not only himself, but those around him. It's a foolish indulgence, he knows. But something about the way his protégés can look him straight in the eye and speak openly and with confidence, _knowing_ they are speaking to L, puts him at ease.

Light-kun (Kira), Yagami-kun, _Light_, had accused him of being overly pompous on more than one occasion. Perhaps he was correct, L considers. But something about accusations coming from a liar's mouth makes them less valid, and so he let the comments slide, never fully sinking in long enough for actual consideration.

The memory brings a slight twinge to his insides, but he attributes it to the current actions of wiping all of the Kira case-related information out of Wammy's database, safely stored away elsewhere, perhaps to be studied one day. Not while L is still alive. Some things contained in the neatly organized folders are for his eyes alone and in no way relevant to the eventual outcome.

He divulged the details of another case personal to him (though hardly as personal as this one) to Mello once. Only fourteen and a half at the time, the boy sat with wide eyes, cross-legged on the parlor floor and drank in every detail with complete silence, as though picturing the events as they had actually occurred. It was slightly amusing to L at the time, seeing as Mello, by nature, was not a particularly quiet individual.

There have been times since then in which L has wondered whether or not he should have told Near of the case instead, seeing as Mello seemed to draw more from the gesture than was intended at the time; thinking himself special and above the other children because of it. Even as he refrained from breaking into the story, L could see it in his light eyes from time to time:

_Why are you telling me this? What am I supposed to do with it? Am I better, am I better, am I better…_

He finds the fingers of his right hand hovering over the keys, perhaps a bit reluctant to delete the final pieces of information from this place. It's very similar to closing a book, the only difference being that the book will be going into the fire, well-worn pages tapering into ash and essentially, wiping the content from existence.

"You're never gonna tell us exactly what went on, are you?"

Us. L wishes that Mello would only be honest long enough to say _me_.

His protégé has been behind him for approximately three minutes and eighteen seconds, and L is positive that during this time, he has read every word on the screen; searching and analyzing, attempting to decipher something that just wasn't there.

"No." He answers simply. Though L knows that this response can either be accepted, or fought against until he is forced to weave a similar tale, sans certain details, if only to calm the blonde.

Mello always did have entitlement issues when it came to the detective.

"Is he alive?"

"No." There are few times where L wishes that Mello would stop asking questions, seeing as that was one of the very things he was always taught to do, from the time he was ushered through the front door, all dripping clothes and straw-like hair, his eyes overly curious. Even then.

"You're lying." The distinct sound of snapping chocolate follows this blatant accusation and L brings his thumb to his lips, mildly amused. He wonders if Mello is attempting to employ similar interrogation tactics as he used while in less savory company.

The key is smooth, if not worn, beneath his finger as L presses down, effectively wiping the system of what could easily become Kira's legacy. "Mello is very skilled at reading tone." He states idly, reaching over to pop another strawberry into his waiting mouth.

Long fingers on his wrist halt this action, however, and L continues to stare straight ahead. He knows what Mello wants and decides that he has done more than enough to indulge the boy over the years. Mello is a man now, nearly twenty, but it seems that he has yet to learn that intimidation is not going to have any effect on the world's three greatest detectives.

Pity, really.

Abruptly, his chair is turned ninety degrees and he is face to face with the blonde, whose presence would be enough to intimidate a lesser man. L, however, only takes slight note of the way the black, sleek leather clings to his skin, leaving nearly nothing to the imagination and serving to perhaps enhance his imagination a bit more than it should.

"Is there a particular reason as to why you're here at this time?" The detective tears his eyes away from the spectacle in front of him momentarily in order to glance at the clock. 2:08. The last eight minutes have gone by in slow motion, it seems. An effect he will have to study later where the contrast between how the mind sorts out events and actual elapsed time is concerned. He glances back to Mello with wide, blank eyes. The same look that had Kira on edge, suffering an internal struggle before answering each question. L had asked him what it was, later, when all of their cards were laid out on the table and trampled underfoot.

"Your eyes." Light had responded. "I hate them." Perhaps the only true thing he had ever said in his life.

And then his knees are being pressed together as a certain, lithe blonde is straddling his lap, all leather and long limbs. He smells like chocolate and L briefly wonders if his flavor is the same as his scent. Past experience has taught him that this is hardly ever the case, but well, nothing would be learned if experiments aren't conducted.

L's lips are still as they are stolen; frantic movements of a mouth over his own and a tongue probing, demanding entrance far too quickly for his liking. He understands that Mello is eager, impatient. More demanding than himself, perhaps. (Though he hardly finds that possible.) His eyes remain open and L decides in that moment that despite his penchant for taking pleasure in chestnut-haired serial killers, he rather prefers blondes. Perhaps this is why he found himself glancing at the hem of Miss Amane's overly frilly skirts on more than one occasion.

The girl hadn't been entirely incorrect when she had referred to the detective as a pervert. Though he disliked the term.

The detective is correct. Mello's mouth does not taste entirely like chocolate. There is a bitterness that leads him to the conclusion that his protégé has taken up a habit other than his preferred indulgence. The faint flavor of cigarette smoke is lingering on his tongue and it brings about the faint memory of a certain Shinigami making an offhanded comment about how strange it is that humans choose to shorten their own life spans with no benefits in return.

He finds that he rather enjoys the eager kissing and suckling that Mello is currently applying to his throat, and so he leans his head back and stares blankly at the ceiling, the only sign of response being the slight shifting of his hips between leather-clad legs. The fabric must be terribly uncomfortable, he decides, as his own worn jeans are supplying him with a frustrating barrier, despite the fact that on a normal occasion, they provide adequate space in which to experience the utmost comfort.

His thoughts are interrupted when he feels the friction of the blonde's backside grinding into his erection, which truthfully, he was not even aware of before now. L remembers Mello, at the age of nine, crawling into his lap with a petulant pout, demanding that L tell him a story.

There is no way that this can be the same boy, heat emanating from both his mouth and his skin and his touches become more and more insistent until the detective is forced to grip his hips, eliciting a gasp from the mouth that was concentrating on forming what is going to end up being an unsightly mark on L's throat.

L never did like to be marked. It was something that he was forced to convince Light out of doing in a rather harsh manner.

His hands press forward, urging the blonde from his lap. The hand beneath his loose shirt protests; fingers curling themselves into his abdomen so that L is forced to lean back and meet those pleading eyes head-on and shake his head slowly. No words should be needed, he thinks. A refusal is a refusal. Near once muttered that no one says no to Mello and the detective found the idea absurd and listed it as a possible reason as to why a boy who grew up in an orphanage with no family or parents could possibly be so spoiled.

Despite never feeling the former, L is quite aware of the difference between love and lust and every shift of Mello's body, every movement of his mouth over L's throat was a silent plea.

_Favor me. Love me. Favor me._

L is aware of the content of sexual games; assertion of dominance, playful nips and heated kisses, hands wandering over bodies until one broke and pleaded for the other. L knows these games well.

This unfortunately, is not one of them.

With every kiss would come a promise, a vow to do something that the detective has absolutely no desire to do. With every touch, an assertion of emotion that belongs to no one, let alone the writhing, desperate creature in his lap.

L keeps this in mind as he makes his way from the house in the back of the large, black towncar, satisfied with the knowledge that Prisoner 303S81Z-4402 in solitary cell 9-A will be satisfied with nothing more than human contact.


End file.
